


never been to jail (cause I never get caught)

by cmc



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, sloppy drunken make outs, this is so stupid and self-indulgent what the fuck ever i can do what i want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 09:26:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9882443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmc/pseuds/cmc
Summary: Paul isn't in a party mood, Daryl is never in a party mood, but somehow the night isn't a total loss.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for an art/fic exchange with the lovely and talented [blu](http://bbluyei.tumblr.com/), because we were talking about how I wanted to see a daryl and jesus version of [the sweater swap scene](https://m.popkey.co/e156d0/y6D8J_f-thumbnail-100-0_s-600x0.jpg) from parks and rec. thank you for indulging me <3 this takes place in that happy magical time after all out war where nothing bad ever happens that all desus fics seem to take place in.
> 
> also shoutout to jesse and haley for putting up with me yelling as I was writing this, love you bitches to death.
> 
> title is from the song giants by bear hands.

It’s Judith’s birthday. Well, okay, it might be Judith’s birthday. There’s, like, a one in three hundred and sixty-five chance that today is Judith’s birthday, and, really, these days those are pretty good odds.

Rick, realizing that his daughter’s life has been filled with unspeakable tragedy since the day she was born (Moms dying, countless numbers of people threatening to crush her precious little head, that one time Enid gave her a haircut and she ended up looking like Chris Farley), decided to throw her a birthday party. Daryl suspects it’s mostly because he misses everybody and wanted a reason to get all his little ducklings under the same roof again, because he’s sentimental like that.

So they’re having a birthday party. Even though they have no idea when her actual birthday is, a fact that Daryl pointed out, to which Rick responded by telling him to go to his room. Nothing can deter Rick from giving his baby girl two years worth of birthday parties and various celebrations, not even the fact that Lori’s death anniversary is on the same day, not even a herd of walkers, not even the undisputable knowledge that parties are stupid, only stupid people like them, and every party ever thrown in history has been a complete stupid waste of time.

Daryl _did_ go to his room (not because Rick told him to, because he _wanted_ to, thank you very much), because, as stated above, parties are stupid, and he wanted no part in them. Why would anyone explicitly tell their loved ones how much they love them by surrounding them with family and friends when you could just intensely stare at them from across the room and then completely ignore them when they look your way? It just doesn’t make sense.

Unfortunately, this isn’t like the last party held in Alexandria, which was in the Monroe’s house (it would be kinda weird if it was in the Monroe’s house now, because they’re all, you know, dead). This one is in the Grimes’ house, which also happens to be Daryl’s house, because his life is just that wonderful. And because he can’t be bothered to move out. Last time, he just stood awkwardly outside for a few minutes before deciding to do his sad loner thing instead of the party thing, which somehow ended in spaghetti and two new friends. This time, he’s stuck in his room in the attic, alone, staring at the wall, and listening to all the happy laughing voices from downstairs. He can already feel the hives breaking out.

Maggie and the group at the Hilltop are supposed to be here. Carol and Ezekiel and Morgan, too (no Shiva, though, probably, which sucks butt because she’s the love of Daryl’s life and probably the only thing that would have 100% guaranteed his attendance). He thinks he can even make out baby Hershel’s babbling – if he’s here then it’s his first time leaving the Hilltop. Which is a big deal. Daryl should probably go say hi to him, see how fat his cheeks are, see how much he looks like Glenn.

It’s that last thought that finally makes him haul himself off the bed. Glenn is gonna haunt his ass forever if he doesn’t go properly appreciate how cute his son is.

He goes down the attic stairs and stands at the door at the bottom step, his hand on the doorknob, and takes a deep breath. Okay, socializing. He can totally do this. It’s just his family, they won’t care if he stands in the corner and doesn’t say anything the whole time. In fact, they’re probably expecting it. They know him. These people have seen him shit in the woods. They don’t care. They love him.

He opens the door and steps out.

The voices downstairs get louder, and he takes another breath. He has to go down the hall and turn the corner in order to reach the other stairwell, and he uses the time to practice getting his Normal Person Face on. Sometimes when he has to be social he has to fake his emotions while in a conversation, because apparently normal people, like, react to shit. Do something other than stare vaguely off into the distance and dissociate. Or whatever.

He’s almost to the end of the hall. When he turns the corner the stairs are gonna be Right There. All his family is gonna watch him coming down the stairs, and it’s gonna be a Big Deal, because, look, Weird Uncle Daryl has left his little room of sadness to grace us with his presence! What trick will he do next? Walk around on his hands? Jump through a ring of fire? Ride a unicycle across a tightrope?

Okay. He’s being ridiculous.

It’s just a fucking birthday party for a fucking baby.

He takes another deep breath and steels himself and takes a few more steps and jumps out the nearest window.

Unfortunately, there’s a roof under the window, so he doesn’t plummet to the ground and die. Fuck. This is just not his day.

He can breathe a little better now that he’s outside, though. Feels more like Daryl, not someone masquerading around in a meat suit that looks like Daryl. He sits on the roof for a second and allows himself to indulge in his favorite activity, thinking about how much he fucking sucks.

There’s a muffled _thump_ behind him and he sighs and closes his eyes.

“Y’know, you really ain’t as sneaky as you like to think you are,” Daryl says, turning around to see – no one.

“Boo,” a voice says into his ear.

“Fuck,” he says, whipping back around to shove Paul, who just laughs. “Hate it when you pull that shit.”

Paul is already settling down next to him, making himself comfortable. Daryl briefly considers pushing him off the roof, but if Daryl isn’t gonna fall to his death today then Paul doesn’t get to go steal his thunder, the bastard.

“That’s why it’s so much fun,” he says, smirking. Daryl hates him.

“Whatever,” he grumbles. “What’re you doin’ out here?”

“I felt like annoying someone, so I went off in search for you,” Paul replies airily. “Also, not in much of a party mood today.”

“You?” Daryl scoffs. “Mr. I-Never-Shut-The-Fuck-Up?”

“Leave the nicknames to me, Double D,” Pauls, elbowing him. “But, yes, believe it or not. Luckily I perfected the art of the Irish Goodbye years ago. I said my hellos, made my presence known, then snuck up here without anyone noticing, intent on annoying my good friend Daryl for the rest of the evening.”

“Fantastic,” Daryl says.

“But not before I swiped a souvenir.” A bottle of whiskey materializes from inside Paul’s coat, and, okay, maybe Daryl doesn’t hate him.

Paul also has two glasses, and, god, Daryl doesn’t understand how many pockets that damn coat has. “You want Big Bird or the Nationals?” he asks, holding up the two plastic cups for Daryl’s examination. One has a picture of a giant yellow puppet holding a teddy bear, the other has the cursive W of the Washington Nationals.

“Big Bird,” Daryl says, and Paul hands it over before screwing the top off the bottle and pouring his own drink first, then passing it over to Daryl.

They drink in silence for a few minutes, and the sound of laughter and conversation from inside the house occasionally floats up to their ears. That’s one good thing about Paul – he may be annoying as shit on a good day, but he does know when to shut his dumb mouth and be quiet. Sometimes. Not that Daryl spends a lot of time thinking about his mouth. Or. Anything.

He pours his second drink before he finds himself breaking the silence, surprisingly. Maybe it’s the whiskey, maybe it’s Paul, maybe it’s Daryl’s terrible attempt to still be social this evening even though he’s skipping the party so he doesn’t hate himself as much later, whatever, he’s not thinking about it too much.

“So, y’ain’t in a party mood?” he ventures to ask. Paul shakes his head. “How come?”

He shrugs before he starts to fidget, chewing on his lip. He looks down at the glass in his hands, and if Daryl didn’t know any better he would say he looks sheepish.

“It’s stupid,” he says, finally.

“I already think you’re stupid, so,” Daryl says. “Go ahead.”

Paul rolls his eyes and elbows him again. “Dick. Fine. But you have to promise not to laugh.”

That’s definitely a promise Daryl can keep, because he hates laughter and happiness and sunshine and rainbows like any self-respecting person with self-loathing issues and all the confidence of a squirrel in the middle of a ten-lane highway. “Alright.”

“I was on a supply run the other day and I went in a pawn shop and I saw this wedding dress in there and I can’t stop thinking about how sad it was,” he says.

Daryl barks out a laugh, surprised. “You’re sad about _that?_ ”

Paul glares at him. “It was all alone and… and it was just _sitting_ there. It’s gonna sit in that pawn shop, alone, for the rest of its life _, alone_ , not able to fulfill its intended purpose. It’s so sad. I can’t believe I left it there.” He starts to smirk when he nears the end of his speech, and Daryl can tell he’s just fucking with him. Of course.

That doesn’t explain the real reason behind Paul’s mood, though, but Daryl wasn’t exactly expecting a straightforward answer. Those are a rarity from Paul, only bestowed during certain instances when bullshit isn’t appropriate (bullshit is, apparently, appropriate in almost all occasions for Paul, except when someone is, like, dying). He prefers to hide behind his Jesus persona, always leaving one barrier between himself and everyone else.

Daryl is, interestingly, one of the people who seems to have seen the real Paul the most, second only to maybe Maggie. Something which is a source of profound confusion for Daryl, because he has no idea why.

Well. Okay. He maybe has an idea why.

The point being, something’s up with Paul, even though on the surface he seems fine. On the surface he’s always fine. Not like, _damn you’re fine_ fine, or… whatever, but like, _hello I’m a calm levelheaded person and can handle anything the apocalypse throws at me_ fine. Paul keeps his cards close to his chest, only shows his hand on rare occasions. It’s easier for him, that way, Daryl has come to understand. They all cope differently, and being Jesus is how Paul copes.

So whatever is up with him tonight that has put him in a non-social mood, if this is the answer he’s giving, then that’s the answer Daryl’s gonna have to accept.

For now, at least.

He’s silent for a few beats. “You wanna get drunk?” he offers.

“I _really_ do.”

 

 

 

They haul ass back inside through the window and up to Daryl’s room, because Paul, at least, has enough foresight to realize that getting drunk on top of a slanted roof might not result in the best outcome (Daryl, now moved past his previous _I’d rather jump off a cliff than pleasantly interact with others at a social gathering_ mood, agreed). As they make their way to the attic stairs they can hear the party still in full swing down below – Ezekiel’s booming voice is bouncing off the walls, and he can definitely hear more than one baby laughing.

“Hershel here?” Daryl asks, voice quiet as they make their way up the stairs.

“Yeah.” Luckily, Paul doesn’t push it further – again, one of the good things about him. No _yeah, you should go down and see him_ , nor any _Maggie really wants you to see how big he’s gotten_ , just hands him the bottle after he’s done filling up his own glass again.

It’s hot up here - one of the cons of living in the attic, all the hot air rises, and it’s even worse when there are a lot of people downstairs - so Paul takes off his trench coat and deposits it on the chair in the corner. Daryl’s mattress is up against the wall, below the window, and Paul saunters on over and gracefully plops himself down, settling his back against the wall and crossing his ankles.

Daryl takes off his vest and sets it down next to Paul’s coat. “Make yourself at home, why don’t ya,” he says, but goes over and sits perpendicular to him on the mattress. He makes sure their legs don’t touch.

“You’re really shit at this whole Southern comfort thing, you know?” Paul says.

They don’t get that drunk. It’s never a good idea, getting drunk these days – anything could happen at any moment, and fighting off a herd of the dead while pausing every two minutes to puke doesn’t sound like Daryl’s idea of a good time. And they don’t want to waste all of their good liquor on just the two of them, no matter how tempting that sounds. So they have a few more drinks each, just enough to get a pleasant, loopy buzz going, that sweet spot where you can finally feel yourself letting go but you won’t be kneeling in front of the toilet in the morning.

Paul turns out to be a snarky drunk. Or a snarky tipsy person, at least. Surprising - Daryl thought he would be a nice affectionate drunk, but he just ends up getting more and more sarcastic after every sip from his cup. He’s telling a story now, gesturing wildly, his drink sloshing as he waves his hands around.

Daryl has no idea what he’s saying.

Paul is sitting near the window, and the moonlight streaming in is encasing him in a light glow. It’s an interesting contrast between how he looks - soft, feather-light, his lips shining from his drink - and the dry lilt of his voice, the sharpness of his tongue. Daryl tries to pay attention to his story but he can’t stop staring at the drop of whiskey in Paul’s beard.

“And I’m 15, you know, just because I’m - ” he raises his hand to his forehead to indicate his height (or lack thereof), furrowing his brows as he thinks, “ - _whatever_ tall doesn’t mean I’m not gonna go for it, because I’m… scrappy and shit. So I go - ”

Paul makes a punching gesture, and Daryl’s gaze shifts to his hands again. The one not wrapped around his glass is clenched into a fist, - is he describing a fight he was in? - his knuckles white as he jabs at the air in front of him. When he’s done with his demonstration his fingers loosen, and they move to tuck his hair behind his ears to get it out of his face from when it fell during his gesticulating. He pauses to take a sip of his drink, and then he’s back, the soft murmur of his voice a pleasant buzz in Daryl’s ear as he zones out.

“ - and I ended up losing my _entire_ toenail, and that’s why I didn’t get my black belt on the first try.”

The collar of Paul’s shirt is messed up. “Huh,” Daryl says, staring at it. Definitely not staring at the collar bone underneath it, though.

Suddenly blue-green eyes meet his own - Paul has tilted his head down to catch Daryl’s gaze. He quirks an eyebrow and Daryl blinks. “What?” Daryl asks.

Paul laughs, and it’s less restrained than his normal one, more like a cackle. Daryl zooms in on his mouth, his lips stretched out, his tongue pressed against the back of his teeth. When he’s finished a grin remains etched on his face, and Daryl’s eyes flick back up to Paul’s.

Paul looks back at him, and after a moment his gaze turns curious, a silent question. Daryl notices their knees are touching, now.

“Gotta piss,” Daryl says, and stands up and heads down the stairs to do just that.

When he enters into the hall the air that hits his skin instantly cool him down - it’s too damn stuffy up there, it was like he couldn’t breathe. He’ll make sure to open the window when he goes back up.

He goes to the bathroom and does his thing, and after he spends an extra few seconds with his hands under the sink faucet. They felt clammy, because of the heat, obviously, and the cool water feels good on his skin. He rubs his eyes before he uses the towel to dry off, and he feels a little more alert and present when he exits the room and heads back up stairs.

As he’s climbing the steps , his gaze automatically searches out his bed in the corner when his head can see over the landing. Paul isn’t sitting down anymore, he’s - standing near Daryl’s chair. Wearing Daryl’s vest.

“What the fuck,” Daryl intones, stopping before he fully enters the room.

“You don’t have a mirror in here, but I can _feel_ how good I look in this,” Paul declares, examining himself.

He doesn’t. Really. Daryl has a good amount of weight on him, and the arm holes are way too big. He kind of looks like he’s drowning in it. It simultaneously makes him look fat and tiny, the vest’s natural shape giving his torso the appearance of being much larger than it is, while exaggerating his thin neck and lean arms.

“Y’look fuckin' ridiculous,” Daryl says. “Take that off.”

“Why? You aren’t wearing it right now,” he points out. “I just wanted to see what it feels like to wear _the_ Daryl Dixon’s vest for a minute. I already know my cool factor has increased, like, 10 points just wearing this.”

Daryl shakes his head, exasperated, and steps forward, raising his hand to wrestle him out of it. But Paul ducks him and in a flash he’s on the other side of the room. Daryl moves again but Paul is still faster, just constantly out of Daryl’s grasp.

Fuck that.

“Fine, y’know what?” he growls after chasing him for a few moments. He goes over to the chair and grabs Paul’s trench coat and shoves his arms in it.

Paul stares at him like he’s an insane person. Fuck, he probably is. Daryl’s arms are way too big for this thing, and he struggles to get it over his shoulders. It won’t go all the way, and he can feel the seams stretching along his back. It sits awkwardly on him, halfway falling off his shoulders, and every time he tries to pull it tighter he can hear the lining on the inside ripping.

Paul is still staring at him. Then laughter bursts out of him.

“You think _I_ look ridiculous?” he says, grinning over at him, like Daryl is the stupidest person he’s ever seen. “Oh my god, your fucking - _arms_ , fuck, where is my hat, you have to wear the hat too,” he says, looking around. “Is it in the pocket?” He steps close to Daryl, and then he’s right in Daryl’s space. He sticks his hand in the right outer pocket, and Daryl’s breath hitches.

Paul pulls one of his beanies out of the pocket after fishing around for a few seconds, and then he reaches up and pulls it over Daryl’s head, shoving it all the way down until it’s almost over Daryl’s eyes.

He bites his lower lip, probably to keep from laughing in his face. Again. “Oh my god,” he says, grinning. His eyes are fucking twinkling and Daryl wants to hit him. “It’s like looking in a mirror.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Daryl says, tearing his gaze away from Paul’s. He shifts it down, to Paul’s neck, and - his collar is still messed up, underneath Daryl’s vest.

Daryl reaches out and grabs it before he can stop and think about what he’s doing.

He fixes the collar of Paul’s shirt, but before he moves his hand away his eyes flick up. Paul is staring at him, traces of his grin still on his face, but now he has a look of genuine surprise.

Daryl doesn’t move his hand away. He’s frozen in place, still staring at Paul, Paul staring back at him, his fingers still tangled in his shirt collar.

Paul’s eyes flick down for a fraction of a second, then return to his eyes. It takes him a second to realize he was looking at Daryl’s mouth, and. Fuck.

Okay.

Paul still has that questioning look on his face. Daryl just holds his gaze until he starts to lean in.

From the look on Paul’s face Daryl expects the first press of his lips to be hesitant, asking permission. It’s not, but it’s not hard and rough, either. It’s a little sloppy, if anything - they’ve both had a few drinks, and though still in control of themselves they’re not exactly graceful swans, either. And Daryl isn’t even good at this without the alcohol, anyways.

Paul starts moving his mouth, and Daryl freezes for a moment before relaxing. He feels a hand on his jaw, and it anchors him as they keep going, Paul’s fingers tangling in his hair. He parts his lips so his bottom lip is in between Daryl’s, and the warm softness of his mouth is a pleasant pressure against Daryl’s own. Daryl moves the hand still clutching onto his shirt collar up a few inches until it reaches skin, feels the hardness of his collar bone.

Paul starts laughing against Daryl’s mouth.

“What?” Daryl says, annoyed, but he doesn’t pull away. Paul’s keeps snickering, and his beard scratches against Daryl’s stubble as he shakes.

Paul shakes his head, as if to snap himself out of it, and he closes the gap between them again. It’s blissfully silent for a few minutes, no noise save for the sounds of their lips moving against each other, and Daryl’s just starting to feel a hint of Paul’s tongue before he starts laughing again.

“Oh my god,” Daryl says, pulling away further this time so he can glare properly.

Paul slaps a hand over his mouth to hide his grin. “Sorry! Fuck, shit, sorry, I’m just,” he dissolves into a fit of laughter, his hand moving up from his mouth to cover his eyes. When he calms down a bit he removes his hand from his eyes and looks back up at Daryl, still grinning. He takes both of his hands and moves them up to Daryl’s face and smushes his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he laughs, his smile wide. His laughter isn’t the _wow you’re so bad at this I can’t believe I let you kiss me, weirdo, now go away_ kind, but it’s the _what the fuck this is happening oh my god_ kind. Daryl is… more than okay with that.

“It’s just you, and it’s me, and it’s you and me, and you’re _wearing my hat and coat_ and - ” he laughs again. He reaches up and pulls his hat off Daryl’s head and tosses it back over on the chair. He smooths down Daryl’s hair where it’s mussed up at the top, and then moves his hands down to Daryl’s shoulders, sliding his coat off.

“I think you stretched out the arms,” Paul mumbles. “Of course. Did the same thing to that one shirt.”

Once the coat is all the way off, he tosses it back onto the chair. “There,” he says, satisfied. “Now you look like you.”

“You don’t,” Daryl says, moving to grip at his vest, still resting on Paul’s shoulders.

“You can admit that you’re scared of how attracted you are to me as I’m wearing this,” Paul replies flippantly, but shrugs off Daryl’s vest anyway and throws it next to his coat on the chair. “Happy?”

Daryl rolls his eyes and Paul gets back up in his space. Daryl’s definitely not blushing.

“That a yes or a no?” Paul asks, his voice low and soft.

Daryl doesn’t answer that, just lifts a hand up and cups Paul’s jaw. Alright. So they’re doing this.

Paul stares at him for a few moments before he kisses Daryl again, and this time Daryl almost stumbles back from the force. It’s still not rough, but it’s more intense now, Paul’s mouth pressing firmly against his own, slipping his tongue in Daryl’s mouth. Their tongues move against each other in long, slow slides, and Daryl can feel Paul’s hot breath against his cheeks and chin and nose.

They trade open-mouthed, messy kisses that fade into each other. Somehow Paul’s arms end up hooked around Daryl’s neck, and Daryl’s hands are at his waist, in his hair, clutching his shoulders, constantly moving.

Paul starts to back him up, maneuvering him towards the mattress. They get there when he barely realizes they’re moving, and Paul pushes him down so Daryl lands in the exact position Paul was in not long ago, his legs out, his back against the wall. Paul lowers himself down on top of him so he’s straddling Daryl’s thighs, his stomach pressed against Daryl’s chest. He takes Daryl’s face in his hands, tilts his head up and kisses him again, and Daryl feels hazy, like he’s half-asleep and this is a dream, and if he reached out to try to grab Paul he would disappear between his fingertips.

He does it anyway, clutches at his hips, wraps his arms around his waist, and Paul is very, very solid.

“Fuck,” Paul breathes, their lips separating but still brushing up against each other. He’s grinding his hips into Daryl’s stomach. He isn’t hard.

“You’re drunk,” Daryl says into his mouth.

“Not that drunk.”

Daryl sneaks his hand in between their bodies and palms his dick and Paul’s breath hitches. Still not hard. “Drunk enough.”

Paul chuckles against his mouth, sending vibrations along Daryl’s lips. “Give me a minute, god. I’ll get there.”

“I won’t. I’m drunk _and_ old.”

Paul thunks his head into Daryl’s shoulder, groaning. “Figures,” he grumbles into his neck, where he immediately starts kissing. It seems a little half-hearted, though.

“What figures,” Daryl grunts.

“I’m finally on top of you and we’re too drunk to get it up,” he says, his voice muffled against Daryl’s neck. He kisses his way up Daryl’s neck, across his jaw and back to his mouth. The kiss is sweet, this time, a firm press of lips, and Paul wraps his arms around Daryl’s neck.

They pull away, and Paul rests his forehead against Daryl’s. They breathe the same air for a moment, and it’s quiet, quiet enough for the low buzz of conversation from downstairs to drift into their ears.

“Next time,” Daryl says, voice low and quiet, into the little space between their mouths.

Paul moves his head back a little more so he can look in Daryl’s eyes. He’s grinning, again, but this time he doesn’t laugh. “Next time,” he agrees, and leans back in.

 

 

 

Daryl wakes up with a headache and someone pressed against his back.

Paul is snoring in his ear, because of course he has to annoy Daryl even in his sleep. They both conked out around the same time, after a bit more kissing (okay, after a lot more sloppy making out, because Paul seemed determined to get hard, but, alas, nothing). Daryl doesn’t remember asking him to stay, but he also didn’t kick him out, so. You know. This is happening. Morning after spooning.

Daryl allows himself to settle back into Paul’s chest for a few minutes, breathing in and out with him, before he carefully gets out of bed and goes downstairs.

As he makes his way towards the kitchen he hears a baby fussing, and someone’s soft shushing in response, a low, soothing murmur. Daryl peeks around the corner and spots Maggie sitting on the couch, half of her shirt pulled up as she breastfeeds her son.

No one else is awake, and the sun is just now coming up, sunlight streaking through the windows. It’s quiet except for Maggie’s soft voice and Hershel’s occasional noise, and there isn’t another sound in the house. Daryl wonders what time everyone left last night - from what he could hear everyone was still downstairs when he fell asleep.

Daryl knocks quietly against the wall to get Maggie’s attention. She looks around before she spots him, and she smiles sleepily at him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Morning,” she replies. “Missed you last night.”

“Yeah,” he rasps. “I was…” he gestures vaguely upstairs.

“It’s okay, I know,” Maggie assures him. “You see where Jesus went off to?”

Daryl fidgets. “Uh. Yeah.”

Maggie raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Uh. He’s. Upstairs.”

Maggie’s eyebrow goes even higher. “Hmmm,” she hums, thoughtfully.

“Shut up,” Daryl says.

“I didn’t say anything,” she says, grinning. Hershel seems to be done with his meal, and she sits him right side up and pulls her shirt down.

Daryl pads over to the couch. When he comes into view Hershel turns his big eyes in Daryl’s direction, wide and curious. Fuck, he looks just like Glenn.

“Hey,” Daryl says, and pats him on the head. The baby squirms a bit before continuing his wide-eyed stare up at Daryl. “He’s getting big.”

Maggie looks proud. “I know,” she smiles. “I boiled some water not too long ago, if you want to make tea. It’s in the kitchen,” she tells him. “For you and your gentleman caller.”

“Shut up,” Daryl tells her again, without any real malice. He bites his lip. “Alright. See you later.”

Maggie grabs one of Hershel’s chubby little hands and waves it goodbye as Daryl turns to go into the kitchen. The kettle is on the stove and the water is still hot, so he grabs two mugs and some tea bags. Daryl’s not much of a tea guy himself, but if it helps with his headache then he’ll gulp it down.

He heads back upstairs, careful not to spill hot water on himself as he climbs. When he gets back up to his room he sees Paul is awake. He’s rubbing his eyes sleepily, sitting up against the wall, next to the window.

“Hey,” he says when he sees Daryl. “Thought you bailed on me.”

“Nah,” Daryl says, making his way over to the bed. He holds out the two mugs for Paul to see. “Power Rangers or Smithsonian?”

“Power Rangers,” Paul says, and Daryl hands it over before settling down next to him. Their legs are touching, this time.

They drink in silence for a minute, watching the room get brighter as the sun continues to rise. Paul seems like he’s still half-asleep, and he yawns every couple of minutes. His hair is all messy, and there’s one strand that’s wildly out of place. Daryl reaches over and fixes it before he can stop himself.

Paul’s eyes are bright. “Thanks,” he says.

They go back to their tea, and Daryl feels warm all up and down his side where Paul is pressed up against him. He replays last night in his head as he drinks - the roof, getting buzzed, Paul wearing his vest, Daryl squeezing into his coat. After. Waking up.

He suddenly remembers what Paul said when he came in with tea. _Thought you bailed on me_.

He thinks about what he said on the roof, too, when Daryl asked what was up. _It’s gonna sit in that pawn shop, alone, for the rest of it’s life, alone._

Something clicks.

“Hey,” Daryl says, softly. Paul turns his head, gaze questioning, and Daryl chews on his lip. “You know you ain’t alone, right?”

Paul stares at him for a beat before his eyes turn soft. He gulps down the rest of his tea and sets his mug on the windowsill next to him. Turns back around and reaches over to take Daryl’s hand.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> this ended up being like.......... way stupider than I intended. but like. whatever. I had fun writing it and if nothing else at least I made myself laugh. come yell with me about desus on [tumblr](http://lawofaverages.tumblr.com)


End file.
